Pride
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: (Ron POV, death fic) Fudge's blunders lead to a brutal war. Ron Weasley, a young man now, thinks about everything he had lost, everyone he missed, and the one thing he could never have. Read and review, please.


** Disclaimer:** Okay, just so you know, Liz is a character I invented that is sort of…best friends with Fred but he loves her more than that. Sorry that this is depressing and whatnot but I got the idea a little while ago and wanted to see if I could take it and write a story. It takes place after the 4th book, though I'm not sure how long. Obviously there is a war going on between Voldemort and obviously, everyone else that isn't...well…evil. Review please and tell me if you like it! 

There is no love left in the world. Everything mankind once valued and treasured is lost; all because of murder and war. Even those foolish enough to love are fighting, and all for what?  For Cornelius Fudge, the man who promised redemption and instead shelved out a battle that no one could stand. Reflecting back on it now, I don't understand what held in his promise. At first, I thought of revenge for the loss of the only person I had ever loved, but now, that seems pathetic to me. What I was truly fighting for-–who I was truly fighting for-–was myself, in the end. It may sound selfish, but I had suffered and earned that privilege. At least, at the time, I thought I had.  


The thing with war, you must understand, is that everything happens in a flash. In the blink of an eye, one thousand people can fall dead to the ground, all from the same source. Can you imagine the utter chaos that a soldier would have to take in, in order to fight bravely enough to stay alive? It helps to have a cause-–a reason to fight for, but only just even then. I had a cause, a small one, but it was still something worth fighting for in my mind. I wanted to not only to be a hero in my own eyes, but in hers as well. I wanted her to be able to look on me with satisfaction and happiness, just as she had with my brothers and even my father, at times.   
Before each of them died, she looked on them with pride and so they died happy men; they died heroes. Perhaps that's why my family was so willing to die, because they knew that she would love them and be proud of them, even in death. Noble men, my brothers were, and they died with words that still ring out even though it's been months since they've passed. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else hears them, but then I realize it's a ridiculous thing to ask so I keep my mouth shut, especially around her.  


I do wish very much that I had died along with them, because that is the only way she'd ever approve of me and see my "glory." I would finally be everything my idols were, and I'd finally be at peace. It's a funny thing now, saying the word peace after so much destruction has happened. The flowers are at bloom, yes, but that does not mean that there aren't dead people beneath them. Beauty conceals—disguises--, but it doesn't heal. It will never heal the pain that was wrought on by Voldemort, and especially Fudge. This war wouldn't have ever taken place had his arrogance been silenced when it should've been.   


Humanity quavered that day, when the Minister of Magic made a statement that the world would change and a new day was rising. That was certainly nice to hear, even though it wasn't true. How could a new day rise if the sun had been destroyed? Voldemort had, in my opinion, taken the sun from me and Fudge had stolen the moon as well. Now, the stars are all that's left and they're useless because I've no one to look at them with. I've no one to tell me that I'm important, no matter how many stars there are. I've no one to tell me that I'll still shine the brightest.  


She won't even look at me anymore, as if I'm a bad seed; a worthless boy that doesn't even deserve attention. I don't blame her, as I'm perfectly happy wallowing away in that meadow behind the house. I spend my days there, talking to my dead brothers and telling them I'll be with them soon. I will, I promise them. The war may be over and won, but battles still rage on. That's the interesting thing about bloodshed: it's like a large, devastating earthquake. The main storm is over, but assortments of small aftershocks appear here and there, killing whomever they can. All you have to do is stand in their path and you'll be caught up in the heat of combat as well, dying swiftly in you're lucky.  


My brothers were lucky and everyone knew that, especially Fred and George. The term, "larger than life" would fit them any day. Fred passed on first after months of torture and self-incrimination. His best friend had died previously, and life just seemed to stop. He locked himself up in his room, I remember, never accepting food or drink unless George was the one bringing it to him. Liz, the girl he was madly in love with, was called. She and I are and always have been good friends, so I had faith in her to bring her back. When she failed–-well, let's just say Liz turned to alcohol more heavily so than before. I remember his last words to me: "Take care of Liz, Ron. Don't look to death because you won't need it as an audience; I'll always be the one watching you."  


Percy was next, surprisingly. We all expected him to hold out, to be stronger than whatever force was tearing the Weasley family apart. But somehow, my older, "perfect" brother let his guard down and was blasted to a million smithereens. George, Bill, Charlie, and I watched him fall to his gory end. Nothing was said on his part, but we all knew what he was thinking. Somewhere deep inside Percy's mind, he knew he was going to leave us all behind that day. The scent of bereavement lingered in the air all day, but only he could smell it. I suppose that's the way death works: you're the only one that truly knows if you're going to die or not.  
  


Because their deaths happened right after one another, we had a joint funeral instead of two separate ones. That was the real shock: losing two brothers almost simultaneously to an unknown adversary that we all knew was indestructible and immune to any mortal pain.  


The funeral was nice, as far as funerals go. The wind blew softly and whispered blessings of peace and love into my ears, though I did my best to ignore them. Bill, Charlie, George, Father, Mother, and I all cried silent tears of anguish as we buried our dead brothers into the ground, never to be seen again. I was wearing a suit, I remember, but somehow that ceased to matter has I dug a large whole with Bill, Charlie, and George; and lowered Percy and Fred's coffins down into the ground. There are beautiful red roses blossoming over Fred's grave now.  Ironically, Liz's favorite scent is roses.   


Charlie was next, which came as another brutal and cruel surprise once more. I always figured that George would wither away with the loss of his soul, but no, Charlie died next. The problem with Charlie is that no one was actually there when he died, and none of us found out until two months later. By then, it was almost impossible to bury him because very little was left. So, instead of burying the rotten corpse, we found a lock of Charlie's brilliant red hair and put that in the coffin instead. For some silly, minuscule reason, I prefer the lock of hair as opposed to the heavy, decaying body. There's something refreshingly serene about burying a lock of hair. Maybe it's because I didn't have to look on, seeing his face decay and be erased from all life forever. A hair stays, for some silly reason. You never think of a hair crumbling or going away. Kind of reminds me of Charlie in that respect.  
  


Irony, of course, was the key in this entire affair. Those who promised they'd never leave perished coldly, and those you wanted to get rid of were always by your side. You can imagine the mind games that existed; twisting your idea of reality until all that's left you trust is simple, agonizing pain. That and pride, as you may have guessed. Pride lives on, oddly enough, despite my constant wish for it to stop haunting my nightmare of a life. I can never get her to love me nor to be proud of me, so why must I sit by and watch her smile kindly at those she does believe honorable?  


There was a time, yes, when the pain did recede and all was well in the Weasley house once again. It wasn't perfect, no, but it was tranquil for once with the lack of George's constant screams in the night. He missed Fred more than anyone could ever understand.  He'd cry out in his troubled sleep, tears rushing down his burning cheeks as I desperately tried to comfort him. But, he didn't want my comfort-–he wanted Fred's. 

  
Unfortunately, our state of serenity and comfort was short-lived, as soon Bill would fall to the end of the earth. Bill was a very passionate person, despite contrary belief. One night, after hearing the plans of a brutal onslaught towards Voldemort, he and I rushed into Fudge's office to negotiate. The negotiations turned sour and that's when I got the vague feeling that something was amiss, or else something would happen soon much to my disliking. The look of pure distaste and hatred in Cornelius' eyes should've been a hint, but I found myself believing that was just because Bill had broken his favorite pen out of rage. It never once dawned on me that the look was one of pure venom because Bill was soon to be Fudge's next victim.  


I had another affair to deal with so my brother dropped me off, though I could tell he was uneasy. There was a malevolent storm brewing and Bill needed someone to help guide him through it. To say the least, his car swerved as a brake short-circuited, and I was found chasing after my brother as he plummeted off a cliff in the sea. I'll never forget that day because I alone saw my kin day, as opposed to the other times when I had someone there to comfort me; I had a shoulder to cry on then. All I had at the time was simple memories and the rain to wash my tears away. Irony, you see? Billy always did love the ocean.

  
At times I wonder why I was the only one left alive; why I was the only one who hadn't died viciously whether by accident or on purpose. I was the only one who had wanted death, and yet, for some small reason, I was the only one who hadn't received it in the fashion I would've liked. There are times when you're faced with a valuable decision in your life: either accept the facts and move on, or give up entirely and waste away until you're nothing more than an outer shell and mere reflection. I chose neither, wanting to see if my options would broaden. They didn't.

  
George was the final one to leave us, though he did it in a much less brutal manner. Peacefully, my brother passed on in his sleep, murmuring out Fred's name one last time. I suppose, in a way, it was a good thing George died the way he did. There were no guts to put back in order, no skin to sew on properly. He was the same in his unmoving sleep as he had always been, except that the once lively soul that had filled him was now gone, never to return. I alone buried my brother out besides the others dead in that meadow, pausing only to glance at each and every grave. Bill was gone, Charlie was gone, Fred was gone, George was gone, and very soon I felt that I would join them. No, I hoped that I would join them and leave this broken would behind.  


Ginny, I've forgotten to mention, was the first to actually leave. None of us watched her die, in fact, I still don't know if she is dead. One night, after a walk along the town, Ginny told Fred, George, and I that she was off to meet Harry at the café. Carelessly we let her, only to find that our beloved sister would never return home. She had been kidnapped, the police told my mother and father. George, Bill, Charlie, Fred, and I all silently believed that she had been raped then killed. I'll never find out, but I hope that Ginny is happy, wherever she is. I hope that she's okay.  


Father just committed suicide, giving up every value he had ever had. His children were dead, and the only one left was lifeless on the inside. Mentally, I believe my father passed on after the news of Ginny's disappearance reached. So he pulled a gun to his head to finalize the situation, while mother was out grocery shopping and I was visiting my dead siblings. You could hear the gunshot from miles away, but for some strange reason, I never caught it. I just sat there, crying helplessly before my lost soul's graves, letting the tears fall upon the roses and violets. Mom was first to find him, but she wasn't the one to gasp when she did. I was the shocked one.   
  


I decided that we couldn't bury Dad beside all the others--it wouldn't be appropriate. So I found his favorite apple tree out in the nearby moor behind the meadow, and there did I put my father down to his final resting place. Every now and again I go out to visit him, seeing how the apples are doing and whatnot. It's pretty there because the sun–-if it's out–-shines down on his grave beautifully and it always looks as "pretty as a picture". I've never understood that saying until now, and I'm not sure that I ever wanted to.  


I miss them as much as I hate to admit it. George was half of Fred's soul and Fred half of his, but my family were all bits and pieces of my own. Without them, I am nothing more than an empty shell. What made Ronald Weasley himself was his family, no matter how utterly insane they were. Everything I am now and everything I was then were made by the simple, yet undying love of those in my home. And now, since almost everyone is gone, there's nothing left. I'm like glass: you can see right through me as there's nothing there, filling in between. Like glass, I'm fragile and easy to break. And like glass, once I'm broken, there's no putting me back together.  
  


Looking back on it now, the only thing that kept me alive was the desire to make her proud of me. Everyone, even my suicidal father, had made her proud. Everyone, but me, that is. I sit here now beside Liz, listening to the whistling of the wind. She doesn't talk, nor I, but we both know what needs to be said. 

  
"I'm leaving tomorrow," She says quietly. This doesn't surprise me, as Liz was never very strong without those to look after her.  
"I know," is my simple answer. I'm leaving too.  


After that, there's merely silence. She leaves short thereafter, and I wonder if I should wait long enough to bury her as well. No, it wouldn't be right. 

  
The sun is setting now as I sit back, up against a tree, waiting for life to pass me by. I hold a small knife up to my wrist, contemplating if she'd ever be proud of me. I glance at each and every grave, saying goodbye and telling them I'll be there soon. I won't die in the war, no, but I'll die where there's love. There's death here as well, but I've found that the two tend to coincide with one another.   


Will she ever be proud of me? Mother, please don't cry. I'm your son and I love you dearly. I just want you to be happy and proud of me. Will you ever be proud of me? Will you be able to get by and still love me, even if I end it this way? I don't know, but I guess we'll both find out and see.


End file.
